Read the book: «Midnight in Arabia», page 3
He had never mentioned it, but then he’d left a lot out of their discourse six years ago. So, the fact that none of them lived among the Bedouin tribe was even more surprising to her than their existence.
“It is so.”
“But …”
Genevieve refilled the teacups without asking if Iris or Asad wanted more. Something about the set of her features told Iris this conversation was no easier on her than the earlier topic had been on Iris.
Asad leaned back on the cushion, looking like a pasha and said, “You wonder why they do not live with the Sha’b Al’najid.”
“If your parents live in Geneva, I suppose it’s natural that your sister and brothers would, as well.”
“They are all of an age to make their own decisions about how and where they live.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She could understand that the Bedouin way of life might not work for everyone, but for all of them to turn their backs on thousands of years of tradition seemed wrong somehow.
“In order to gain permission to leave the tribe, my father had to allow my grandfather to raise me here as his own son to take over leadership of the tribe.” Asad said it so casually, it took a moment for the import of his words to sink in. “It is why I am called bin Hanif instead of bin Marghub. Not that my father uses his tribal name. He goes by Jean Hanif.”
In Western culture such a name similarity would show the family connection, but in Kadar, Asad not carrying his father’s name was as good as disowning him. Though it sounded like the decision had been made for him.
“That’s barbaric.” Iris slapped her hand over her mouth, unable to believe she’d said that out loud, no matter how much she thought it.
She looked askance at the tea; was there something in there that she didn’t know about?
Genevieve smiled reassuringly, clearly having taken no offense. “Jean found much about the Bedouin way of life to be barbaric. He never wished to return from our visits to Geneva to my family. He insisted on attending an American university and ended up married to a European like his father.”
If they no longer lived among the tribe, Iris thought that Western origin could be the only thing Asad’s mother had in common with Genevieve.
“Celeste and Jean came here to live after their marriage, but neither were happy. Eventually, Jean told us that he had no desire to follow his father as sheikh to the Sha’b Al’najid. My husband could have named a cousin or nephew as his successor. It is how he became sheikh himself, but he saw the fire of the Bedouin burning brightly in our grandson and offered the alternative of us raising him here instead.”
“How old were you when your parents left?” Iris asked.
“I was four.”
And they had seen the Bedouin spirit burning bright in him? At such a young age? Iris supposed it was possible, but it was still barbaric. “How old were your siblings?”
“My sister was two. Mother was pregnant with my younger brother, as well.”
“She did not want to give birth in the encampment.” Genevieve shrugged, the movement exhibiting her Gallic ancestry. “All of her children were born in a Genevan hospital after Asad.”
Despite their past, Iris could not help the rush of pity and understanding she felt for Asad in that moment. She knew exactly how it felt not to be necessary to one’s parents.
Asad shook his head at her. “I know how you are thinking. Stop it. My parents did not abandon me. We continued to see one another often and I always had my grandparents. I had the Sha’b Al’najid. Doing things in such a fashion was necessary. My father did not want the less luxurious life of the Bedouin and my grandfather knew one day I would make an excellent sheikh.”
No arrogance there. Not at all. She almost smiled. “It looks luxurious enough to me.”
“We have satellite access to the internet for four hours in the afternoon only. We do not have modern kitchens, appliances or bathrooms.”
She knew what he meant and shrugged. “I’m sure your facilities are better than what I have on most of my camping field assignments.”
“No doubt.” He smiled as though her words had pleased him, then the smile melted away as if it had never been. “What we have now is beyond what my father experienced in the encampment. Though when he and the others visit, they still find it abysmally rustic.”
“All of them?”
“All but my youngest brother. He was born four years after they moved to Geneva.” Asad’s lips twisted wryly. “An unplanned blessing added to my parent’s family. He has said he plans to make his home here once he finishes university.”
“And your parents are okay with that?”
“Naturally. My father relies on the tribe’s business investments for his income. He knows better than to reject our way of life completely.” So, regardless of how unaffected Asad would like to appear regarding his father’s rejection of his way of life, there was something there.
“He gave up his oldest son to the tribe,” Genevieve chided. “Any parent would feel that was a sufficient sacrifice.”
Iris begged to differ, but she wasn’t about to say so out loud. Her parents would have happily given her up if it meant getting what they wanted. In fact, they had often made the trade-off of time with her for travel on their own. She’d never told Asad that she’d been sent to boarding school at age six, but then the fact had always shamed her.
She’d thought there was something wrong with her that her parents had preferred to have her live with them only on school vacations. And even then, they weren’t always “at home” when she was.
“Perhaps,” Asad replied to his grandmother, not looking particularly convinced. “I do not know how difficult the decision was for them. I know only that they made it, choosing life outside of the encampment rather than living here to raise me.”
Genevieve clicked her tongue twice, as if gently chiding her grandson without saying anything overt.
“You never told me this.” And Iris wasn’t sure that hadn’t been for the best.
She’d been head over heels in love with Asad, but how much worse it would have been for her if she’d believed they had this pain in common and allowed herself to identify with him on such a deep level?
“There was much we did not talk about.”
“True. I didn’t even know you were going to be sheikh one day.” And he knew nothing of her childhood or her parents’ supreme indifference. She’d never told him the story of how she’d lost her virginity. Asad was oh so right; there was a lot they’d never spoken of. “Looking back, I realize I should have guessed based on your bearing alone.”
“I did not mean to hide that from you.”
She believed him. He had been so certain she knew the score, she did not believe he’d meant to hide anything from her. For the first time in six years, she admitted to herself that they’d both been spectacularly wrong in reading the situation between them. Not just her.
That didn’t do a thing to alleviate her current anger with him for manipulating her into coming to Kadar, however.
Genevieve rose gracefully to her feet. “I will refresh the tea.”
Iris went to stand, intent on helping, but the older woman placed a staying hand on her shoulder. “No. Another time, I will teach you to make tea the proper way. Now you must stay here and renew your acquaintance with my grandson. He has so looked forward to seeing you again.”
Nonplussed, Iris could do nothing but nod with as much graciousness as she could muster. She didn’t think it would do her company’s relationship with Kadar a good turn if Iris admitted she would rather renew the acquaintance of the rattlesnake she’d met on her last field survey than Asad’s.
Asad waited until his grandmother had gone to say, “I never lied to you. I thought you knew I was meant to be a sheikh.”
“I heard you the first time.” She glared at him, her current anger sufficient to fuel the nasty look, their past notwithstanding.
“And?”
What? Was he expecting her to congratulate him or something?
“Do you believe me?” he asked with a tinge of frustration in his usually urbane tones.
“Yes.”
“Then why the look when grandmother left us to talk?”
Really? He could not be that dense. “I guess an eidetic memory does not equate to people smarts.”
His eyes narrowed in affront at her sarcasm. “You have changed.”
“Yes.” She was no naive idiot anymore. “But seriously? How could you think knowing you would be a sheikh one day would have made a difference to me back then? I wouldn’t have been any more prepared to be dumped like I was.”
“I did not dump you.”
What happened to that famed honesty of his? “Excuse me, you did.”
“I had obligations, a plan for my life I could not abandon.”
“You didn’t want to abandon it. You didn’t leave me out of duty—you left because you never wanted me for a lifetime. I was just stupid enough to believe you did. That’s all.” And equally painful, she’d lost her best friend.
“I am sorry.”
He had said that six years ago too, with pity in his eyes. But not regret. If there was regret there now, she wouldn’t let herself see it.
“It’s in the past.”
“Yet I still see pain in your eyes when you talk about it.”
She couldn’t deny it, but she sure wasn’t going to admit to it, either. She’d had all the pity she could stand from this man when she’d been that foolishly naive nineteen-year-old. Besides, she had something much more recent to deal with.
“I can’t believe you engineered me coming to Kadar.” She made zero effort to hide how much knowledge of his manipulation infuriated her.
He looked shocked by her anger. “I was doing you a good turn, making up for my abrupt departure from your life, if you will.”
“You have absolutely got to be kidding me. You think being forced to work in close proximity to you is in some way a good thing?”
“I am no monster. You used to enjoy my company very much, and I do not just mean in the bedroom.”
“We were friends. We aren’t anymore!” She swallowed her next words and fought for control of her vocal cords. The last thing she wanted was for Genevieve to return to Iris shouting at the man she was beginning to realize was more dense than metamorphic rock.
“We could be again.”
“Why?” Why would he want to be?
“I missed you. You missed me.”
And to him, it was that simple. Never mind the fact she’d been so totally in love with him that she’d felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest when he left. “You could have just called.”
“You needed the Middle East experience to move forward with your career.”
“Just how close tabs have you been keeping?” she demanded.
“Close enough.”
“So, you thought you’d do me a favor?” Why did she think it hadn’t all been altruism on his part? Oh, yes, because she no longer trusted him and never would again. “Didn’t it occur to you that not coming to the Middle East had been my decision?”
“No.”
She dropped her head in her hands and groaned, her fury losing its heat. The man just had no clue, none whatsoever.
And there was no point in continuing this discussion. He was never going to get it, but he wasn’t going to drop the subject unless she did.
So she observed, “You said you share this tent with your family.”
“I do.”
“Where is everyone else?” Were the tent walls so thick, they would mask the sounds of a child?
It was surprisingly quiet, no sounds from outside filtering through, nor from any other part of the tent.
“My grandfather spends this time each day with the other old men, drinking coffee and telling stories. No doubt he would have stayed to meet your arrival, but my grandmother knows how to get her way and she wanted to meet you first,” Asad revealed in a fond tone.
“Where is your daughter? In school?” Iris guessed.
He shook his head. “She will be playing with other small children under the watchful eye of my cousin.”
Since, presumably, if his grandparents had more children than Asad’s father, the barbaric bargain would not have been made, he didn’t mean cousin literally, but referred to a female relative. “She’s not old enough for school?”
“We do not run a school precisely, though the concept is similar. We train our children in every aspect of life, not merely to read, write and cipher, though we do not neglect their book learning. Some will want to attend university one day.” He reached out as if to touch Iris and let his hand fall, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. “But you are right, my daughter is too young for any formalized training.”
“Does your grandmother have someone to help her with …” She let her voice trail off, not knowing the child’s name.
“Nawar. My daughter’s name is Nawar and she is four. My grandmother and cousin help me with Nawar, but she is my daughter.”
“That is a commendable attitude to take,” she grudgingly admitted. “But I would have thought that since you’re the sheikh, you’d be too busy for full-time parenting.”
“Is it so unusual for a father to have a career? I do not think so. I spend as much time with Nawar as possible.”
Once again, Iris believed him, but wished she didn’t. It would be a lot easier on her if she could simply see him as a complete and utter bastard. Instead, he made himself all too human. If they did not have the shared past they did, she would not only respect him, but she might even like him, as well.
Something she simply could not afford to let herself do.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I WOULD be more comfortable staying in another tent.” Iris knew this was her only chance to argue her viewpoint and she should not have wasted time discussing their past.
“Would you really?”
“Yes.”
“You wish to stay with strangers?” he asked in a tone that said he knew she would not.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But that is the only other option.”
“Well then, maybe it would be best.” As much as she hated the idea, it was better than living in his home.
“No.”
Typical Asad-like response. He didn’t bother to justify, or excuse; he simply denied.
“You’ve gotten even bossier since university,” she accused him.
Though back then, his bossiness had not bothered her. He’d convinced her to try things she never would have otherwise, like the ballroom dancing class they’d taken together a month after they’d met, or attending parties she wouldn’t have been invited to on her own and learning to dance to modern music amidst a group of her peers.
She’d suppressed so many of the good memories from their time together and now they were slipping their leash in her mind.
He did not look particularly bothered by her indictment. “Perhaps.”
“There is no perhaps about it.”
“And you are surprised? I am a sheikh, Iris. Bossiness is in the job description.” He sounded far too amused for her liking.
“Asad, you’ve got to be reasonable.”
“I assure you, I am eminently reasonable.”
“You’re stubborn as a goat.”
“Are goats so stubborn then?”
“You know they are.”
“I would know this how?” he asked in an odd tone.
She rolled her eyes. “Because everybody does.”
He nodded, tension seeming to leave his shoulders, though she had no clue what had caused it. “You will stay here.”
“You’re a CD with a skip in it on this.”
“First a goat, now broken sound equipment. What will you liken me to next?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“There is nothing further to discuss in it.”
She opened her mouth to tell him just how much more there was to discuss when a flurry at the door covering caught Iris’s attention. A second later a small girl with long black hair came rushing into the tent and threw herself at Asad’s legs. “Papa!”
He leaned down and picked her up, giving her a warm hug and kiss on her cheek. “My little jewel, have you had a good morning?”
Other than the coloring, Iris did not see the family resemblance. The little girl must take after her mother. The observation made Iris’s heart twinge.
“I missed you, Papa, so much. I even cried.”
“Did you?”
She nodded solemnly. “Grandmother said I needed to be strong, but I did not want to be strong. Why didn’t you take me with you, Papa?”
Asad winced as if regretting his decision to leave his daughter behind. “I should have.”
“Yes. I like playing at the palace with my cousins.”
“I know you do.”
“Next time, I must go.”
“I will consider it.”
“Papa!”
“Stop, you are being very rude. There is someone here for you to meet and you have spent all this time haranguing me.”
Watching the two together caused that same delight tinged with pain she felt around Catherine and Sheikh Hakim. It was so clear that Asad loved his daughter and that pleased Iris because it meant she had not been entirely wrong about this man six years ago. She’d thought he would make a wonderful father and she’d been right, but knowing he’d had his child with another woman sent salt into old wounds.
“Oh, I am sorry.” The little girl looked around and locked gazes with Iris, her dark eyes widening. “Who are you?”
“Nawar,” Genevieve chided, coming back into the room with a laden tray the cousin jumped forward to relieve her of.
It was clear from the extra cups and amount of food that Genevieve had expected the child’s return with her minder, a woman about fifteen years Asad’s senior with soft brown eyes.
The little girl looked properly chastised, her expression going contrite. “I did not mean to offend.” She put out her little hand from her position in her father’s arms. “I am Nawar bin Asad Al’najid.”
She sounded just like a miniature grown-up and Iris was charmed. She took the little girl’s hand and shook gently. “My name is Iris Carpenter. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bin’asad.”
“Thank you. Why do you call me Miss Bin’asad?”
“Iris is being polite,” Asad answered before Iris could.
“Oh. But I want her to call me Nawar. It is my name.”
Iris had spent very little time around small children, but she thought Nawar must be exceptional. “I will be honored to call you Nawar and you may call me Iris.”
“Really?” the girl asked. She looked to her grandmother. “It is all right?”
“If she gives you permission to do so, yes,” the older woman said with firm certainty.
“Iris is a pretty name,” Nawar offered.
“Thank you. It is my mother’s favorite flower.” She’d decided her mother chose the name so she would not forget it as easily as she and Iris’s father forgot their only child. “Nawar is lovely, as well. Do you know what it means?”
“It means flower. Papa named me.”
Iris did not know why Asad had named his daughter rather than his wife doing so; perhaps it was a Bedouin tradition, though that sounded rather odd considering the other cultural norms she had read about among his nomadic people.
It was those norms that made it possible for Iris to stay in Asad’s familial tent, but would have made it impossible if he did not live with his grandparents. She could wish he’d broken more cultural norms and moved into his own dwelling, so she didn’t have to.
“Your papa is very good at naming little girls, I think.”
“I do, too.” Nawar smiled shyly. “What is haranguing? Do you know?”
Asad huffed something that could have been a laugh.
Iris stifled her own humor and answered, “It’s like nagging.”
Nawar turned her head to glare at her father. “I don’t nag, Papa.”
“Sometimes, little jewel, you do.”
The little girl sniffed and it was all Iris could do not to burst out laughing. An urge Iris surprisingly felt several times over the next hour, while sharing more tea and refreshments with Asad’s family. His grandfather joined them not long after Nawar had arrived, evincing the same pleasure in Iris’s presence as Genevieve had done.
Iris expected Russell to arrive any minute, but the minutes ticked by and he didn’t. When she asked, Iris was told he had been given a tour of the encampment by one of Asad’s tourist liaisons.
She couldn’t quite suppress her disappointment at the news. “Oh, I would have liked to have joined him.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. I planned to give you a tour later,” Asad said with satisfaction.
Iris just stopped herself from gaping and said, “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your valuable time as sheikh.”
The man was relentless. He wanted to renew their friendship and he would make that happen. One way or another. Maybe he did regret the way things had happened between them and this was his attempt at making up for it, but still … she hadn’t imagined that predatory look in his eyes, either.
He probably saw nothing wrong with adding sex to their friendship. He’d done it once before, after all.
“Nonsense, you are a guest in our home. Asad would not dream of neglecting you while you are here,” his grandfather said with finality.
Iris thought she knew where the younger sheikh had gotten his arrogance, and it wasn’t from a stranger. But the older man’s point about the Bedouin tradition of hospitality could not be ignored, either. From what she had read, it was not a matter of pride, but one of honor.
And honor could not be dismissed.
“May I go, Papa?” Nawar asked.
Iris smiled at the little girl in encouragement, but Asad shook his head. “You will be napping, I am afraid.”
“I’m not tired.” Nawar negated the words almost instantly by rubbing her eye with her small fist. “I want to go.”
Her father pulled Nawar into his lap and kissed her temple. “You need your rest, but be assured Iris will still be here when you wake and for many days after. Won’t you, Iris?”
Iris could do nothing but agree. Asad and his cousin had maneuvered her neatly into a situation she saw no way out of without severe damage to her career.
Genevieve showed Iris to her room while Asad put Nawar down for a nap.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Both private and luxurious, the apartment was larger than she’d expected.
The bed was ground level and a single, though. Covered in rich silks a deep teal color she’d always loved, it looked very comfortable nonetheless. Graced with fluffy pillows Iris was certain just from looking at them were of the finest down, the bed tempted her to simply sink down and take her own afternoon nap.
Genevieve nodded and smiled. “Asad had someone come in and change the decor to better fit in with the rest of our home after Badra’s death. During their brief marriage, moving this room alone was almost as big of a job as moving the entire encampment.”
“I’m … this used to be the princess’s room?” Iris asked faintly, relieved that while still luxurious, it wasn’t anywhere near as ostentatious as Genevieve implied it had once been.
Though the fact the princess had called it her own would explain the amount of space dedicated to it in a Bedouin tent, regardless of the fact the sheikh’s dwelling was probably one of the largest in the encampment.
“Oh, yes.” Genevieve indicated the fabric wall the bed butted up against. “Asad’s room is just on the other side.”
“But isn’t that … I mean, aren’t the male and female quarters separated?”
“In a traditional tent, yes, but I must admit to making some changes in our home when I married Hanif and Badra made even more. While the receiving room is traditional, the way we divide what used to be considered the women’s space is quite different.”
“I see.” Though honestly, Iris felt very much in the dark.
“Hakim and I have the room at the end, beyond the interior kitchen. Fadwa and Nawar share the room between it and us. And you are correct, in the Bedouin culture, usually a single woman would stay in that room with them, but Asad has decreed you would be more comfortable in Badra’s old lodgings.”
The older woman waited as if expecting Iris to say something, so she said, “Um … I’m sure he’s right.”
Neither woman commented on the fact that the sheikh and his wife had not shared sleeping quarters. But Iris couldn’t help speculating on the why of it. Had the virtuous Badra found the wedding bed too onerous?
Unimaginable. How could any woman not fall under the sensual spell Asad created in the bedroom? When they were together, she’d craved his touch with an intensity that had shamed her after the breakup. At the time though, she’d been enthralled by the beauty and passion of their lovemaking.
It was simply unfathomable to her that another woman would be indifferent to Asad’s sexual prowess.
Needing to redirect her thoughts, Iris reached out to touch the brass pitcher beside a matching basin on top of the single chest of drawers. “This is lovely.”
Decorated with an intricate design surrounding a proud peacock, it was polished to a bright sheen.
“The water in the pitcher is clean. You may drink it, or use it to wash,” Genevieve said. “Someone will come to dispose of the water in the basin for you. It will be used to water my garden in the back, so it is important you only use the soap provided.”
Iris picked up the bar of handmade soap and sniffed. The fragrance of jasmine mixed with sage. “I’ll be happy to. This is wonderful.”
“I am glad you think so.” Something in her tone said that perhaps the perfect princess, Badra, had not. “We make it here in the encampment.”
Iris noted that her case was beside the chest, but she hadn’t seen anyone come in while they were visiting over tea. “Is there another entrance to the tent?”
Genevieve nodded with a warm smile. “Through the kitchen. I will show you the rest of our humble home, if you would like?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
The tent dwelling was anything but humble, the private compartments all endowed with the same level of luxury as Iris’s room, if not a plethora of furniture that might make their twice-a-year resettlement difficult. Or at least, Iris assumed Nawar and Fadwa’s was, but she had been unable to see for herself as the child was settling into her nap.
One thing she did note was that the single women’s quarters that housed Asad’s daughter and distant cousin were actually smaller than the apartment Badra had commandeered for her own use and that Iris would now use.
When she said as much to Genevieve, the other woman shrugged. “Perhaps when Asad marries again, his wife will reapportion the sleeping quarters again. So long as she does not attempt to change my and Hanif’s room, I will be content.”
“Is he thinking of remarrying then?” The thought of Asad taking another wife sent a shard of pain that absolutely should not be possible straight through Iris’s heart.
“But naturally. Though he has not set his sights on any woman in particular.” Genevieve led the way through the inner kitchen and outside. “Enough time has passed since Badra’s death though, I think.”
“How did she die?”
“In a plane crash with her lover,” Asad said with brutal starkness from behind Iris.
His arrival taking her by surprise, she jumped and spun to see him standing with an old familiar arrogance, but an only recently familiar harsh cast to his features.
Genevieve tutted at her grandson. “Really, Asad, you needn’t announce it in such a manner.”
“You think I should dress it up? Pretend she was simply vacationing with friends as the papers reported?”
“For the sake of your daughter, yes, I do.”
Asad inclined his head. In agreement? Perhaps, but the man wasn’t giving anything away with his expression.
“What do you think of my home?” he asked, dismissing the topic of his unfaithful wife in a way that shocked Iris.
The Asad she had known at university would never have been so pragmatic about such a betrayal.
Forcing her own mind to make the ruthless mental adjustment of topics, she said rather faintly, “It’s fantastic.”
“You like your room?” he asked, the stern lines of his face relaxing somewhat.
She tried to keep the hesitation she was feeling from her tone. “Yes.”
“But?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t you?” Asad’s tone was borderline cutting.
“It’s just that, well … it’s kind of big for just me, isn’t it? I mean, it’s gorgeous, but I could set my lab up in the room and still have plenty of room to spare.” She felt guilty about that fact, though she wasn’t sure why.
Not to mention, it was right next to Asad’s room. That in itself was enough to cause immeasurable anxiety and probably sleeplessness on her part.
One of his now rare but gorgeous smiles transformed Asad’s features. “That will not be necessary. You and your coworker have already been assigned quarters for your tests.”
“Thank you.” What else could she say?
“I will do all that I can to make your stay here a pleasant one.” The words were right, but the look that accompanied them sent an atavistic shiver down Iris’s spine.
She turned to take in the charming courtyard created by the surrounding tents. Jasmine and herbs in pots decorated with bright mosaics made the space seem anything but desert austere. Despite the heat, other women cooked over open campfires, their curious gazes sliding between their sheikh’s guest and the watch they kept over children playing in the communal area.
“I had read that the tents are grouped by family ties. Is that true here among the Sha’b Al’najid?” Iris asked.
“It is,” Asad answered while his grandmother conferred with the woman cooking what Iris assumed was to be their dinner. “The dwellings around us are those of the family closest to my grandfather’s predecessor. Had my grandparents had more children, it would be their tents that occupied these spots around the sheikh’s home.”
It must have been a great disappointment to the elder couple to have only had one child, but Iris kept her lips clamped over the much too personal thought.
“Come.” Asad took Iris’s hand and placed it on his arm. “I will show you the rest of our city of tents.”
The free excerpt has ended.
